


Paper Tiger, Do You Bend in the Rain?

by caesiumlight



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 00:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11702943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesiumlight/pseuds/caesiumlight
Summary: How unbearable the weight of a servant's love for his master.





	Paper Tiger, Do You Bend in the Rain?

He is seven when his father introduces Yixing to him.

“He is to stay by your side,” and Jongin sulks severely, for he does not see the need for another servant. All of them are the same; they frown when he plays in the courtyard and admonish him when he makes too much noise. 

His father chuckles at his reaction. “A playmate of sorts, if you will.” Jongin perks up at that, and chances a glance at the boy hiding behind his father. The boy ducks his head, but after a moment, peeks up and gives him a shy bow. 

Later, when his father leaves, Jongin frowns at the boy. “What can you do,” he demands. The boy looks confused and terrified, and Jongin grows impatient. “Well?”

“I can make you a paper lantern,” comes the timid response, “in the shape of any animal you please.”

Jongin lights up. “I want a tiger.”

The boy beams at him. “Then a tiger it shall be.” 

 

 

He is nine when Yixing finds him throwing down his wooden sword in a temper. 

“I don’t want to practice anymore,” he declares, and scowls when Yixing giggles at him. 

“Like this, my lord,” Yixing says, picking up the sword and flawlessly demonstrating the series of steps his tutor had him learn. Jongin’s eyes go wide at the beautiful grace with which Yixing moves.

His shoulders droop when Yixing is done. “I don’t know how to do it like that,” he admits.

“I will teach you,” Yixing says cheerfully. “Come, young master, try again.”

 

 

He is ten when he falls ill. A terrible fever that has him bedridden for days. 

There is talk in the kitchen of the boy not surviving. 

Yixing never leaves his side during this time. He brings him water, and changes the wet cloth on his forehead incessantly. He spoon feeds him broth, and rubs soothing circles down his back when Jongin retches. 

The physicians talk gravely outside, but Yixing sews him felt puppets and tells him stories to conjure a smile on his face. At night, Yixing curls his body around his, and despite shivering from the cold Jongin feels a tremendous warmth inside. 

“You’ll get better,” Yixing promises.

He does.

 

 

He is twelve when they are attacked by bandits.

The guards are outnumbered, and their carriage is torn apart by the men searching for gold. In panic, Jongin unsheathes the dagger tied to this side, and unthinkingly stabs the foot of a bandit who gets too close. The man howls in fury, and rounds on him with his sword. Jongin drops the dagger in fright, rooted to the spot. 

In a flash, Yixing throws himself in front of him, and there is a resounding clang when the man’s sword meets his servant’s. Yixing parries every strike, but the strength of a boy cannot be compared to that of a grown man’s, and a particularly brutal swing glances off Yixing’s sword and catches his arm. Jongin cries out when he sees the bloom of red on his servant, but Yixing stands without wavering, shielding Jongin.

Then, Yixing speaks, humble yet strangely authoritative. “You have what you came for. We are mere children. Please, let us go.”

The man considers them. A shout comes from another bandit outside, calling for their retreat, and the man turns to leave.

Jongin cries when they return home, worried and upset over the wound on Yixing’s arm. “Hyung,” he sobs, “will you get better?”

Yixing ruffles his hair affectionately. “Not to worry, little tiger.”

“But you are hurt!”

“It is nothing,” Yixing insists. “If I can protect you, this matters not.”

Later, he listens to his servant tell his father of his bravery when he drew the dagger on the bandit. His father lays a hand on his shoulder, proudly, but all Jongin sees is the bandage wrapped securely around Yixing’s arm. He vows to grow stronger.

 

 

He is thirteen when he first kisses Yixing.

For his birthday, Yixing had a scarf of red wool made. The stitching is intricate and fine, and the material feels delightfully soft against his skin. Yixing shyly drapes it over him, and Jongin proclaims it to be his favourite gift of the day. 

He notices the small, raw wounds on Yixing’s fingers, and demands to know the cause, even though Yixing tries to hide them.

“I was careless with the needle,” Yixing finally mumbles. 

Jongin clumsily reaches for Yixing’s hands, and presses a kiss to them. When he looks up, his servant’s face is as red as the scarf. 

 

 

He is fifteen when he is to present his skill with the sword to his father.

In the weeks leading up, Jongin practices until his limbs ache and the callouses on his fingers rip open and bleed. One night, he collapses onto the ground from exertion, back screaming in pain. Yixing is by his side in an instant, pulling Jongin’s arm around his shoulder and lifting him up. Jongin wants to push him away because Yixing doesn’t understand; Yixing moves with prodigious talent and can never understand how it feels to fall short of expectations. 

But he is far too exhausted, too drained, to say so. Yixing manoeuvres him into bed, carefully tucking him under the covers. 

“My lord,” Yixing begins uncertainly. 

“Not now.”

“Forgive my insolence, but allow your servant to say one thing.”

Jongin turns his face away, childish and petulant. 

“My lord thinks that he is inadequate,” and Jongin’s teeth clench, “but it is not so. He has something that I will never have; he has a fire in his dance that draws all eyes to him.”

Jongin snaps his gaze back to Yixing, and the servant smiles at him fondly. “When he shows his skill to his father, all will see his flame, and all will acknowledge his might. Of this I am sure.”

Yixing bows, and leaves the room.

On the day of his presentation, Jongin holds his sword steady. The other nobles clap his father on his back, congratulating him on his son’s skill. The crowd fawns over him, and Jongin notices many of the girls tittering. He thinks he should be happy; he has earned his father’s approval, along with that of the villagers, but oddly enough, it fails to match up to the pride he sees in Yixing’s eyes, blazing fierce and dazzling for him.

 

 

He is sixteen when he runs away from home.

His mother’s funeral has the entire village in mourning, but all Jongin feels is a hatred for the people coming to pay their respects, weeping about how well they knew her when he barely recognises their faces. Anger slides molten hot down his cheeks.

A chest cold, the physicians had said. Just a chest cold which should pass in a week or so. 

His father, stern and severe, returns to the house looking terribly old and distant. When he reprimands his son, for a man should never shed tears, Jongin takes to the forest in a fit of rage. 

It is Yixing who finds him, huddled under a tree, shuddering in the cold of the rain. He does not say a word, only holds the one paper umbrella he brought over Jongin, allowing the droplets to soak himself instead. 

Hours pass and neither of them move. Only when Jongin can no longer bear the sight of Yixing shivering stubbornly, does he get to his feet and trudge home. 

 

 

He is eighteen when he punches the son of another nobleman in the face. 

Jongin experiences a vicious satisfaction at the blood pouring from his nose, but it isn’t enough. “Apologise,” he says coldly, a threat promising more violence. “Apologise to Yixing.”

“My lord,” Yixing pleads, “that is enough.”

The man only sneers, wiping the back of his hand under his nose, before spitting in Yixing’s direction. Jongin does not stop to think, entire body clenching up with fury, fist already thrown back— 

But Yixing flings himself at his feet. “My lord, please! What would your father think?”

All the fight seeps out of him at those thoughtless words. Jongin stares at Yixing in resentment, and he sees fear and sorrow creep into his servant’s eyes. Unable to resolve the need to comfort with the bitterness he feels towards Yixing, Jongin turns on his heel and leaves, ignoring the jeering from the nobleman’s son. 

He doesn’t see Yixing for the next three days. 

Eventually, anxiety overwhelms his pride, and he corners a servant, demanding to know where Yixing is. 

“In the care house, my lord,” the servant replies cautiously. “He was sent there for his wounds.”

Chest hollowed out in frantic worry, Jongin races to the hut. He finds his old tutor rubbing salve over Yixing’s back, his servant’s face twisting in unbearable agony. 

“What happened?” he asks harshly. 

“My lord,” comes Yixing’s shaky voice, “please do not look.”

But Jongin doesn’t listen, and what he sees when he draws closer has his blood curdling in horror. Yixing’s back is a _ruin_. Red welts as wide as his finger streak across the pale skin; a careless, cruel, work.

The old tutor takes Jongin’s trembling arm, and pulls him aside. “Your father sent him to the man whose son you struck. Thirty lashes were given as punishment.” 

“ _Why?_ ”

“That nobleman is to be our next judge in court, and your father did so to remain in his good graces. Surely you did not think your actions would warrant no consequences, young master?”

Jongin’s throat works, but he is incapable of speech. He walks over woodenly to his servant. Shame wrecks him, and it is more than he can bear. He kneels before Yixing in supplication, disregarding their positions as master and servant. None of that matters here; he’d gladly press his head to the ground for pardon. But Yixing’s hand finds his meekly, and Jongin senses the forgiveness in the touch down to the tip of his toes. 

“Hyung,” he whispers, and now the tears slip unbidden. He feels small, and stupid; in trying to defend Yixing he only inflicted more pain. “You took what was meant for me. I do not understand.”

“Little tiger,” and Jongin nearly flinches at the affectionate use of his old nickname. “Have I not said before? If I can protect you, this matters not.”

“I am undeserving—”

“Hush,” Yixing says, and dares to lift unsteady fingers to brush lightly across Jongin’s cheeks. “My lord, you are deserving of the world.”

 

 

He is twenty when he realises the extent of his feelings for his servant. 

When he sees Yixing everywhere: in the courtyard, in the forest, in his dreams. When he recognises that Yixing has transcended the role of servant, counsellor, and friend. Has he always been this beautiful? Has the dent in his cheek always set his heart pounding? 

He is twenty when he catches Yixing staring at him: once, twice, three times. 

Yixing fumbles back each time, apologies falling from his lips, face a scarlet red.

And Jongin allows himself to hope. 

 

 

He is twenty-one when he decides to kiss Yixing again. 

He knows he is not alone in this feeling, this terrible longing for the other, so it shocks him when Yixing withdraws as if burned. That Yixing should refuse what was so freely given stings his pride dreadfully, and Jongin callously demands to know his reasons.

Yixing trembles mutely and bows his head. 

“Answer me,” Jongin commands. He rarely ever uses such a tone with Yixing, but the hurt engulfs him, makes him reckless and unreasonable. 

“My lord, I—”

“Dispense with the formalities,” Jongin hisses, angry. His servant flinches, and a part of Jongin feels guilty he’s throwing his authority this way, but he has to know. “Yixing, why?”

Yixing swallows thickly, as if gathering courage to speak, and finally he whispers, “I am afraid.”

Jongin frowns. “Afraid? Of my father? He does not have to know.”

Yixing shakes his head vehemently. “No, my lord. Nor am I afraid of what he will do to me if he finds out.” The words seem to have to be forcefully wrenched out of him; Jongin knows Yixing serves his household proudly, and would never speak ill of his masters. Most times the thought of Yixing’s loyalty and devotion makes Jongin swell with affection, now it simply serves to add to his frustration.

“Then what is it?”

Yixing sighs, and slowly, meets his eyes. What Jongin sees there has his throat closing with emotion; it is pure sorrow, and regret, and self-loathing. “I am afraid that my heart could not bear it. That I will taste you tonight, knowing that I can never do so again in the future.”

“Why would you think such a thing? Have I not shown—”

“You are to be married, my lord,” Yixing says sombrely, and time seems to stop for Jongin. “Two months from now. Your father told me it was to be a gift, to celebrate your coming of age.”

“No,” Jongin says flatly, ribcage constricting in panic. “ _No._ ”

“It has been decided. Your bride-to-be… she is beautiful.”

“I refuse!” Jongin nearly shouts. “My father cannot make me!”

“My lord,” and here Yixing pauses hesitantly, “these are things we cannot fight.”

“Do I not have a say?” But even as the desperate words leave his mouth Jongin knows the answer. This has always been his destiny. To carry on the family name with honour. To have a wife, and children; a new family to call his own. He feels tears prickle the corner of his eyes. 

“So you see, my lord,” Yixing murmurs, “you must see why. I beg you understand. If you were to touch your lips to mine… my heart could not bear it.”

“I…” Jongin begins, but is unable to continue. Only now does he comprehend the monumental burden his servant bears; the unbearable weight of adoration he harbours for a master who could never reciprocate. It has him reaching out to tug Yixing close, and dropping his head to rest on Yixing’s shoulder. “Forgive me,” he chokes out. “I did not know.”

“You are not to blame,” is Yixing’s tender reply. Gentle hands come up to smooth over his hunched back, and Jongin feels like he’s ten all over again. He wants nothing more than to remain like this, cradled in the warm embrace of the one who loves him most.

“Hyung, will you leave me?” he asks humbly.

Yixing clutches him tighter. “Never,” he says, resolute, but so utterly broken. “I will stay by your side always.” Yixing pulls away, and carefully, as if giving Jongin the option to push him away—as if Jongin _ever would_ —places a chaste kiss on his forehead. “But only as your servant. I can be nothing more.”

If he were a good person he’d order Yixing to go. If he were a good person he’d release Yixing; cut the ties that bind his servant to him. But he is selfish, and the thought of Yixing leaving scares him more than anything ever could. “I am sorry it is not enough,” is all Jongin can offer.

“It is enough,” Yixing responds firmly, but for a moment his gaze turns inward, as if he were trying to convince himself so. “Jongin-ah, it is enough for me.” 

_It has to be._

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from my LJ.


End file.
